


The Choices We Make

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Healing, Hospitalization, Johnlock - Freeform, Joltolock, Loss, M/M, New Friends, Past Relationship(s), Supportive Sherlock, Worried John, attempted suicide, callback to Reichenbach, post TS0T
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's relationship with Major James Sholto had always been kept a secret from Sherlock and, yet, the two have something in common that bonds them together--a love of John Watson and the fallout of their relationships with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Choices We Make

It was cold, bitterly so, up there on the roof at St. Bart’s. The wind was knifing through the thin, blue-trefoil-printed, backless gown and trousers that Major James Sholto was wearing in place of the smartly tailored uniform formerly worn at John Watson’s wedding, the one damaged by the thrust of a skewer through the belt. He had begun to bleed profusely as soon as the belt was removed in A&E, the bloodstain spreading rapidly, a deeper, more horrifying red than the brilliant color of his jacket. His white belt had a hole neatly punched through it, right at the height of his kidney. Kidneys are highly vascular, John had told him later, and he would have bled out internally before anyone really knew what had happened. Thank God for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, he thought as he looked out and around from his tentative perch, the iron-gray sky pressing in on his psyche. 

_John_ … _Oh, what I’ve done to you. To your new life, to your “special day”. What I did to you, all those years ago. You didn’t deserve it. You deserved so much better than a scarred cripple you would have had to care for. And now, here I am again, back in your life for only a couple of hours and already causing you grief and inconvenience. It was never meant to be. It probably never should have even started_. _We just needed each other so much, to cope with the pain, the bloodshed, we had to endure. The threat of an early, and untimely, death hanging over our heads…we needed that contact to keep going.  
_

He gazed, without really seeing, at the mobile phone he held loosely at his side, as if it could impart some not-readily-apparent wisdom to him. 

_I should probably leave John a message. I’m sure he’ll get it when they do the investigation into my suicide. If I leave the phone up here, it won’t get broken when I fall…if I don’t explain, he’ll blame himself, I know he will. Need to absolve him of all responsibility for my actions. He’s a good man… deserves so much more than I could give him. Maybe, now, he can find some peace with his new wife._

His ruined face turned down to observe the scamperings of the pedestrians below. 

_Look down there. All those people, living out their perfect little lives, never looking up, never seeing what’s not in front of them..or above them, for that matter. They’ll never realize what’s going on until the sound of the impact causes them to start and turn around. Then, it will be too late, the deed done--the end of a life that has become nothing more than a grim parade of suffering and remorse. One step, that’s all it takes…just that one_ … 

A _ping_ emanated from the phone clutched in his one good hand. He looked down, startled. A text message? From whom? Who even knew he was here? He’d been so careful to leave, unseen, at shift change. 

The message on the screen said “WRONG.” 

A snippet of “The British Grenadiers” started playing, his personal ringtone. James tentatively raised the device to his ear. 

“Major Sholto,” it said, without preamble. 

He recognized the voice. It sounded _different_ coming from such a tiny speaker, so much less impressive, its resonance made tinny. Still, he knew who it was from the reception—the rapid-fire deductions, the verbal cart-wheeling down the center aisle, the admonishment at the doorway to his hotel room. 

“Mr Holmes. To what do I owe the honor, sir?” he asked, drawing himself up to his full military height. 

“You are about to make the wrong decision, Major. I know. I stood where you are now and made that same choice. Fortunately, in my case, the death was completely orchestrated and relatively short-lived. Yours, on the other hand, would be quite permanent, and a bit messy, I may add.” 

James looked around his vantage point and spotted a tall, slender figure dressed in a long dark coat off to his right, standing near some parked cars. It had what was probably a phone pressed to its left ear and its coat collar was standing upright against the chill wind that lashed at the bottom of said coat. He stood, unmoving, but James could feel those piercing eyes on him. 

“I am currently standing exactly where my dear friend, John Watson, stood as I made plans to take a fall for him and two others. It was that, or they would have died from a sniper’s bullet. I made the best choice I could, but, still, I miscalculated. Gravely. You’re about to make the same mistake I did, and for very much the same reason.” 

“And what reason would that be, Mr. Holmes?” James challenged him. 

The figure shifted feet but, otherwise, did nothing. 

“You have convinced yourself that this is the best course of action you could follow so as to spare others the continuing threat of your existence. What you are actually about to do is cause immeasurable pain to someone you care about deeply and who once—and still does—care about you. You know this, yet there you are, in the stupidest place you could possibly be, because you are feeling sorry for yourself.” 

James felt burning anger wash over him. How dare this man pass judgment on him! By his own admission, he had stood in this same place, contemplating the same action, not so long ago! Arrogant bastard. 

“You’re no one to lecture me, Mr. Holmes. You jumped. You let your friend mourn you for years without ever letting him know that you had survived or why you did what you felt you had to do! You’ve caused him just as much pain as I have, perhaps more!” 

A muted chuckle through the speaker surprised James. “Very true, but we both know John Watson intimately. Is he a good liar?” 

“No. Not in the least. It was one of the things I valued most about him,” James admitted. 

“There you have it, then. If I had told John I was alive, he wouldn’t have behaved like a man in grief. He might even have tried to find me due to some misguided sense of nobility and loyalty. The snipers would have figured out I was still alive, my friends would have all been killed posthaste, and I would have failed in my mission to keep them safe. Do you understand?” 

James nodded. “I think so. Put that way, it makes sense.” 

“However, in your case, you are considering jumping…why, Major? Because you are scarred and injured? You’ve been that way for years. Because some madman tried to kill you? You’ve received death threats since returning from Afghanistan and you were shot at on a routine basis before that, so you’re not a fearful man. Why now? Why after John’s wedding?” The tiny figure below canted its head in inquiry. 

James closed his eyes as a rush of emotional pain crashed through him. 

“Are you aware that John was one of the medics that pulled me out of that fiasco, the only survivor of a detail of young recruits I had led? And that he was shot in the process?” 

“No, I was unaware,” Sherlock said, his voice tight, restrained. “John doesn’t talk about his time in the military much. He only mentioned _you_ to me just before the wedding, while we were doing the seating plan.” 

James made a ‘ _hmph’_ sound. “I’m not surprised. John’s a very private person, as you know. He keeps a lot inside.” He paused, considering how much he wanted to reveal to a complete stranger. 

“Yes, I know.” Quietly. 

“Well, my detail and I got caught in a firefight with Afghani soldiers. My boys were all wiped out, brutally, while I suffered severe burns and an injury to my left arm. John was shot in the left shoulder hauling me out. Still, he wouldn’t leave me. I told him to, but he refused. Stubborn git. Once we got back to the medical unit, he refused to leave my side. Demanded the other doctors treat him right where he was, sitting with me. He even tried to bandage me up, using one hand, until his commanding medical officer set up a cot next to mine and ordered him into it. He talked to me day and night, trying to keep my spirits up while they had both of us on morphine, waiting for it to be safe enough to medevac us out. I don’t even remember most of what we said but it was probably pretty funny, considering we were both out of our heads. They took me out first, since I was more badly wounded than he was. Last thing I said to him was that I’d keep in touch.” 

“You lied,” Sherlock remarked, without onus. 

James nodded. “I lied. I cared so much for him that I couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing the wreck I had become. I couldn’t ask him to stay with me, to take care of me, as an invalid. No, he deserved so much better than that. The guilt I felt, knowing that he had been injured coming to save _me_ …” 

“That’s part of a field doctor’s job. You know that, Major.” 

“Yeah, I do, but I…I couldn’t live with it. I heard later that he had gotten a psych discharge because of a psychosomatic limp. That was my fault, too, Mr. Holmes. If he hadn’t come to get me…” 

“He loved you. Did you expect any less?” 

James’ shoulders sagged. He was freezing up there, on that infamous roof, but it didn’t matter. It was what he deserved for everything he’d done. To John. To those fallen boys who were entrusted to his care. To their families, people like Jonathan Small, who wanted him dead. It had all just burst in on him. He deserved no less. 

“Major Sholto.” A reminder of where he was.

He straightened up again and looked down at the tiny figure watching him. Others had stopped and were watching silently. One or two of them took out phones, either to call 999 or to take video, he wasn’t sure which. 

“I’m still here, Mr. Holmes. For now, at least.” 

“Major, please, _carefully_ , look down.” 

James leaned ever-so-slightly forward and craned his neck to look at the pavement below. On it, he saw a black “X” and some scrawled writing. “What does it say?” 

Another chuckle, this one without humor. “Some wag painted the words “Sherlock was here” after I jumped. Every now and then, some new joker refreshes the paint. Would you like them to add “and Major Sholto” to it as well? You’ll land _right there_ , considering where you’re standing. It’s not a great epitaph, is it, Major?” 

He leaned back, taking a deep breath. It looked a lot higher than it had previously, but it was enough to kill him quite effectively. 

“John will be devastated if you jump. Trust me on this. I laid on that very spot and watched my best friend fall to pieces in front of me. Strangely enough, somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that he could care for me _so much_ that he would spend the next two years I was away feeling half-dead inside, to the point of _contemplating suicide_ when the pain became too much to bear. I think about how I would have felt if I had returned from my mission and found a gravestone standing next to mine that read “John Hamish Watson” because of _my_ actions. Because of my lack of understanding and foresight.” James heard a choked breath before Sherlock continued, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible. “I might have taken steps to place myself in that grave next to his. I wouldn’t have been able to carry the guilt. _Think_ about that, Major.” 

He did. James went silent, his mind whirring and clicking, processing this new information. If he jumped, how would it affect John? He knew John still cared. _John_ would have stayed in touch if James had let him. His isolation was his own doing, he knew that. 

“Sometimes, Major, sometimes we have to keep living so that others can continue with their lives. Even when we’re in pain, even when it seems hopeless and all the light has gone out of the world, we have to carry on so that we don’t hurt the ones we love.” 

“Like me.” 

“Yes, Major. Like you.” 

“Like you, too, Mr. Holmes. I heard your speech. I heard what others didn’t because I understand it. You and I, we are very much alike in that respect,” James stated, bluntly. 

There was a long silence, then a simple, “Yes.” 

Suddenly a door burst open behind him. He turned, not so quickly as to unbalance himself, but in surprise at the interruption, as he saw a familiar figure come flying across the rooftop toward him. 

“James!” John called out to him, breathlessly. It was obvious he had run up the entire flight of stairs in one go. “My God, get down off of there! What the hell are you thinking?” He ground to a halt just a couple of feet away, panting, and extended his hand. “Please. James. Come down. Come inside.” The tired, frightened look in his eyes stabbed James through the gut. “Please. I couldn’t take another one. Please.” 

“How did you know?” James asked, thinking maybe he already knew the answer. 

John held up his mobile. “Sherlock texted me. Told me where you were. Said he’d keep you on the line ‘til I got here,” he gasped. 

James turned just enough to look down at the longcoat-clad figure below. He could almost see the smile on its face as it held up a second phone in the other hand that had been buried deep in the belstaff’s pocket. 

“Go with him, Major,” Sherlock counseled. “I’ll come up, too. I think that, maybe, you and I have a lot to talk about.” 

James nodded and smiled weakly. “I think so, too. And, please, call me James.” 

The figure nodded. “Sherlock. See you in a few.” >click<

Moving carefully, James Sholto allowed John Watson to help him down from the parapet and toward the elevator bay. 

“You’ve got a good friend there, John,” he said. 

John nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Got one here, too,” he said, patting James on the arm across his shoulder. And he smiled.


End file.
